Once Bitten
by Hatteress
Summary: Derek would really appreciate it if the universe would stop paralysing him and throwing him in the path of Stiles goddamn Stilinski. Actually, scratch that - he'd appreciate it if it'd stop throwing him in Stiles' path full stop.
1. A Pretty Good Pair

_**AN:** Yes, it's that scene - the one Jeff Davis brainstormed but that never actually made the cut. I don't really have an excuse for this beyond - well - Tumblr. Tumblr is my excuse._

_I don't own the boys or the show - I just like messin' with 'em._

_**UPDATE:** This monster is basically a series of short stories - one per chapter. I figured it'd be easier to put them all together rather than try and sort the collection individually. So - welcome to the Once Bitten Verse. I hope you enjoy your stay :)_

* * *

Derek would really fucking appreciate it if the universe would stop paralysing him and throwing him in the path of Stiles goddamn Stilinski. Actually, scratch that - he'd appreciate it if it'd stop throwing him in Stiles' path _full stop_.

Stiles huffs, breath fanning across Derek's jaw and for all he's pumped full of fucking kanima poison Derek feels every hot nuance of it. Screw his life so hard.

"Can you move yet?" Stiles asks. Derek growls low, because it's not the first time he's asked and just like before, the answer is still the goddamn same.

"No," he bites out. "Stop asking."

"Pardon me for wanting a progress report on the plan to save _literally every person I care about_," Stiles hisses and it's disconcerting, hearing the vehemence in the tone without the customary flailing that should go along with it. Derek huffs and flexes his fingers - he's managed to shift enough to unsheath his claws, fat lot of good it's doing.

"Your leg is pinning my hand," he growls. "I can't get close enough to kick start the healing process."

It takes Stiles a moment to get it. "_That's_ your big plan?" He scoffs into Derek's skin. "Claw at yourself until your wolverine healing kicks in?"

"You got something better?" Derek says, jaw clenching and Jesus fuck, it's bad enough he's paralysed - weighed down in his own body and _trapped_ - he seriously - _seriously_ - could have done without the five foot ten slab of teenage sarcasm plastered all over him to boot.

Fucking Matt. A good fucking pair his _ass_.

Stiles goes silent for a few moments and Derek would relish it but he knows the signs that proceed one of Stiles' disaster plans. It should probably be worrying that he knows him that well.

"How hurt do you need to be?" Stiles asks and yep, Derek's not going to like this _at all_.

"I don't know," Derek says. "Enough that my body thinks it's a threat."

"So... Broken skin?"

Derek frowns. "Probably, what-_what the fuck are you doing_?"

Stiles stops to hiss him quiet which Derek would take offence at except _holy fucking Jesus-_

"Be quiet," Stiles says. "I'm trying to get to your neck."

"_By licking my face?_" Derek hisses. A breeze sneaks in under the door and prickles cold across the wet stripe of where Stiles had prodded at Derek's jaw. With his tongue. The actual fuck.

"I'm not exactly enjoying this y'know," Stiles gripes. "But my mouth is the only thing I can move right now and if I'm going to get close enough to bite-"

Oh _hell_ no. "You are NOT biting me," Derek growls and Stiles - fuck him - scoffs. Actually scoffs.

"I really, really am," he says. "You said it yourself - you need to kick start the healing gig. Well here I am - this is me, kicking."

The thing is, it's not a bad plan - not logically, but instinctually? Derek feels a low, feral snarl build in his chest and Stiles, through whatever marvel of Stiles-ness, actually manages to freeze on top of him, _while paralysed_. Derek bites back on the growl and gnashes his teeth, claws itching.

"Come on, man," Stiles says, voice a little thinner than a moment before. "This is our only-"

"Do it," Derek bites out, harsh and furious because fuck it, Stiles may be a guided fucking missile aimed solely at Derek's last nerve but he's not wrong. This is their only choice.

Stiles sucks in a breath, steeling. "H'okay," he says and then-

"This is fucking ridiculous," Derek says, because he has to. Because if he doesn't say something he's going to be focusing too much on the feel of Stiles' fucking _tongue_, lancing out and _pressing_ - nudging across his jaw to the tick of his neck just under his ear...

"You know what else is ridiculous?" Stiles gripes. "Your freaking stubble. Who taught you how to use a goddamn razor, a bear?"

Derek opens his mouth to reply but ends up choking on his words when Stiles' next lick-prod slides the wetness of his tongue right into Derek's motherfucking _ear_.

"Oh my god," Stiles groans. "If we get out of this, please don't kill me."

"Just hurry the fuck up," Derek growls and yep, that's his ear again. Stiles is breathing hard now, because apparently tonguing at Derek's face is fucking exerting or something. Derek swallows harshly and tries not to shiver which is proving mortifyingly difficult because Stiles' breath is hot and his tongue is right _there_, and how, _how_ is this Derek's _life_?

With one last mind-bendingly traumatising prod, Stiles manages to push out enough that his head falls into the crook where Derek's neck becomes his shoulder. Derek doesn't care that he takes satisfaction at Stiles' grunt of pain as his forehead hits bone. Because there had been _tongues in ears_.

Stiles groans and Derek would jump if he were capable because fuck - for all Stiles' tongue had just been on his face, the feel of his wet, open mouth against Derek's neck is about ten times more intimate.

"Ready for this?" Stiles says. It comes out a mashed slur of words against Derek's skin but he understands it.

"Get it over with," Derek says and he braces himself. Fat lot of fucking use it does.

The first press of teeth against his neck washes his vision red, blood rushing in his ears as the wolf part of him - the _alpha_ - all but _howls_ it's challenge. It's all he can do to clamp down on the snarl that wants to break free. Stiles - thank god - doesn't stop. Derek doesn't think he could stamp down on another first wave of instinct if he did. Instead he seems to steel himself, opening his jaw slightly wider with a shaky scrape of teeth before gaining a grip and -

Derek stops breathing, air catching low and sharp in his chest as he feels his fangs lengthen and _fuck_...

It hurts - because of course it does - but it's not that that's making his heart thrash and claws score grooves in the linoleum floor. It's the burn of being dominated. Pressed down and _marked_.

Derek's submitted before of course. His father, as his alpha growing up, had pulled him into line on more than one occasion. After him had come Laura - Laura who wouldn't let him succumb to the guilt of what had happened - who had snarled and slammed him bodily though those first few years - the hardest years.

This though, this is different. Derek doesn't know if it's because he's an alpha himself now or whether it's because Stiles is human but the wolf side of him - the dark heat of instinct and pack - is twisting in on itself. Derek's never felt anything like it. The confusion is blinding but under that is a strong, hot thread of something he can't describe beyond _intense_.

Then Stiles lets go and the feeling whiplashes like a rubber band across his senses.

"Oh god," Stiles says, lips still against Derek's neck, now wetter than just breath. "Blood is so, _so_ gross."

Derek clenches his hands and - _Derek clenches his hands_.

"Did it work?" Stiles asks. "Please say yes, I have absolutely no desire to do that ever, ever again."

Derek's answer is to reach up and grab a handful of Stiles' shirt. Dragging Stiles off him feels like lifting a semi-trailer but it's progress, progress that sees Stiles sprawled _not on him_ for the first time in half an hour so Derek really can't complain. Stiles' mouth is bloody, teeth red as he grimaces. Derek finds himself not knowing what to do with the sight of it.

Then Scott bursts into the room and it doesn't matter anymore.


	2. Mongrel

_**AN:** I cannot put into words how quick and dirty this was bashed out. Un-betaed, unplanned and probably ridiculous - because apparently my biting kink can't leave well enough alone._

* * *

The bite scars. Stiles figures its gotta be something to do with the Kanima poison because he's never seen any other marks on Derek and god knows Derek runs around half naked enough that Stiles - well, not that he'd be really _looking_ looking - but there would be a _small_ degree of- jesus, he'd just frigging notice okay?

The first time he sees it, pearl-coloured and raised slightly on the crook of Derek's neck, Stiles almost trips over his own feet. He's never been so glad to be naturally clumsy before, able to play the near-sprawl off as one of his everyday wrestles with gravity but he thinks Derek looks at him a little too sharply to be completely fooled. And Stiles suddenly has to swallow against the imagined taste of blood.

It's not the last time.

* * *

When Stiles was little, he'd fallen off a fence and impaled his leg on a jagged bit of loose wire. To this day, he still remembers the blood, the pure terror in Scott's six year old eyes and his mother's hands, hot and soothing on his face as he'd cried and cried.

He's not crying now, but he has a numb sort of feeling that that's because the shock has set in.

"Stiles! Stiles, come on, look at me!"

Stiles blinks his eyes open and huh, when had he closed- oh fu-

"Dad?"

His dad's face is crumpled and desperate, one side of it streaked with what looks like dirt - dirt and blood and what? No, no he can't be here, he can't-

"Eyes on me Stiles," his dad says and it's the same voice that had told him to breathe while his mom had pressed the towel to his leg - the same sureness and worry. Sheriff and dad, all in one.

"Dad, you have to run," Stiles says. He can hear snarling; a crash as something large falls hard. "Dad please-"

"I'm going to blame that on the shock," his dad says, shifting and pressing and - _oh fuck_ - fire lances up Stiles' side and he makes a pathetic wounded sound.

On a scale of one to ten, being stabbed fucking _sucks_.

"Just hold on," his dad says before there's suddenly another crash, closer than before and Stiles only has to roll his head to the side before his vision is a wall of black leather and denim and it's slightly hilarious that he can identify Derek by that alone.

Derek's on his feet again within a second, claws scoring viscous lines in the packed earth as he crouches, facing off against the dick who thought it'd be a good idea to violently acquaint Stiles with the sharpest tree in Beacon Hills reserve.

The dick who's also the leader of the Alpha pack. The Alpha of alphas. The Alphalpha. Oh wow, screw bleeding to death, Stiles is living long enough to crack that joke out loud at _least_ once...

Derek's rumbling challenge rolls across the clearing like a bad horror movie sound effect and Stiles feels his dad tense beside him. He's gunna go ahead and blame the blood loss for the sound being fucking _reassuring_ to _him_.

"You think you can take me, _mongrel_," the Alphalpha snarls and Stiles watches as Derek pauses, slight and subtle but there - like he's surprised, like-

Oh _shit_... Stiles' vision wavers, black spots winking at him until he squeezes his eyes closed and concentrates for a moment on not passing out.

_Mongrel_.

The Alphas have been in town two weeks now and in that time they've made no secret of their distaste for bitten werewolves. Stiles has compared them more than once to walking, talking eugenics propaganda. Derek though - Derek isn't bitten. Hell, Derek's the one they're here to recruit - why would they think -

And it's then - right then, as Derek turns slightly, crouched low and rumbling that Stiles catches sight of the tear in his collar. The tear that's right over where Stiles' own teeth marks flash back at him. The scar. The scar a born werewolf shouldn't have...

Holy sh-

"You're gonna want to back down," Derek snarls, voice thick around his fangs. Stiles feels his dad's hand spasm slightly against his side and can't help his slight huff of pain. Alphalpha's eyes, burnt red and glowing, fix on him.

"Y'know," he says. "I'd thought better of Hale. Any self-respecting Alpha would have come for this one himself."

"Yeah, well," Derek says. "Hale's a shit alpha."

It's said so sure; so flippantly that Stiles almost thinks Derek believes his own words. Then Alphalpha huffs a laugh and nods - fucking _nods_ - like he hasn't detected a lie at all and oh - wow, that's just...depressing...

Stiles shifts, can't help but suck in a hasty breath around the pain of it and Alphalpha's eyes fall back to him. "A pity really," he says. "He would have made a good wolf." Lips pull back over fangs. "Guess we'll just have to settle for him being a good message."

He lunges, straight at Derek and Stiles has sat on the sidelines of enough pack sparring sessions to know a gigantic fuckup when he sees one. It's a steamroll move - all brute strength and way, way too obvious. He's treating Derek like a newly bitten beta. All because of a freaking _scar_.

Derek sidesteps the attack easily and Stiles gets to see the split second of surprise on Alphalpha's face before Derek twists, using the other Alpha's momentum against him. Derek's claws sink in almost up to his palm and oh, wow - that'll never not be gross.

Alphalpha gapes and Stiles might have found it funny if it weren't so freaking horrifying. "Ha-Hale-"

Derek snarls, ripping his claws free with a sound Stiles really could have lived his whole life without hearing thanks so much and god, are those entrails? Oh man, why does his life feature _entrails_ now? This is not okay.

The Alphalpha crumples like a really bloody house of cards and Stiles has just enough energy to find it amusing that his biting Derek has managed to save them all _again_ before he gives in and passes out.


	3. Joss Whedon is our God

Derek's going to have to start looking at his life choices. Because seriously, whatever has led him to hunting _vampires_ of all things, really needs to be cut out of his life. With a blow torch.

"Oh come _on_, how are you not loving this?" Stiles crows next to him as they round the corner into the alley that cuts towards Stiles' street. The vampires have been scoping the town for three days now and it's more than likely they've pegged Derek's house as werewolf central. As much as Derek's loathe to abandon the territory, he knows better than anyone just how unfortified the place is. Not to mention that this particular coven has a habit of setting fire to things.

Which...no.

"It's like we're living an episode of Buffy!" Stiles says, having way too much fun with the whole situation as far as Derek is concerned. "You're totally Angel by the way," Stiles continues, oblivious. "What with the forehead and the _grr_." Stiles does a ridiculous mime of teeth with two fingers, nose scrunching up as he trots along beside Derek and if Derek speeds up, well can you blame him?

Stiles laughs, loud and delighted as he jogs a couple of steps to catch up. It should be obnoxious. It _is_ obnoxious, only the sound of it also winds around something low in Derek's gut and fucking _tugs_ a little. It's not the first time. It's also not the first time Derek has stamped viciously on the feeling until it's like ash in his stomach. Because there are a lot of things Derek can deal with, but that feeling is not one of them.

"I'm not Angel," Derek says. "If anyone I'm Spike."

He absolutely does not relish Stiles gaping at him. "_You_ watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer?"

Derek shrugs. "I liked Oz."

Stiles rolls his eyes, but he's grinning. "Of-freaking-course you did," he says.

Derek notices too late that his pace has slowed again to accommodate Stiles next to him, steps falling into an all too familiar rhythm. Because apparently it's not enough to have accidentally memorised Stiles' heartbeat and nervous ticks, he's had to go and get used to his _gait_ as well. Derek scowls.

"Oh c'mon Sourwolf, it's not all bad," Stiles says. "I have Halo 4 remember? You get to kick my ass using an ordinance drop system this time!"

Because of course after putting the arson thing together, Stiles hadn't hesitated in saying Derek was staying with him. It's a good plan really - or rather, the best they have. It's just him and Isaac out at the house since Peter fucked off with what remained of the Alpha pack. Isaac can stay with Scott (not like he isn't half living there anyway these days) and Derek can take advantage of the fact the Sheriff is in the know about werewolves and lay low in a house with consistent electricity and hot water.

Win, win. Except for the part where Derek's finding it increasingly more difficult to be around Stiles without his wolf sniffing the air every ten seconds. Fuck his life.

On cue, Derek's nose twitches and that- _that's not Stiles_. Derek doesn't hesitate, dropping into a crouch as he turns, backing Stiles up against the alley wall behind him as he feels his vision wash red. Behind him, Stiles yelps as he collides with the wall and Derek spares one hand to reach back and clasp his wrist, keeping him there.

"Derek, what the-"

A laugh that's more sibilant hiss cuts him off and Derek can't help his low growl when the vampire folds itself out of a darkened alcove across from them. To look at, the thing is stunning - blonde, lithe and all sharp edges in the smattering of streetlight that's filtering in from the street but to smell...

Derek has smelled dead things that were easier to stomach.

"You must be the Alpha," the vampire says. "We weren't expecting _you_."

It takes Derek a second to get it and when he does, he can't help the tightening of his grip on Stiles' arm.

"Oh good," Stiles says weakly. "This was a 'go after the weakest link' play, good to know."

The vampire smirks. "No offence meant, you're just the easiest human to get to."

Which - fuck, it's not wrong. Lydia can hardly take two steps without Jackson hovering over her these days and Allison, well, the vampires have to know a hunter family when they see one. Which leaves Stiles. Stiles whose dad is often on the late shift. Stiles who doesn't date. Stiles who would probably punch the biggest hole in the pack if he were taken.

Derek snarls and he feels Stiles shift behind him, hand shaking loose of his grip before pressing to the dip between his shoulder blades. It's weight there is reassuring in a way Derek doesn't even want to begin to analyse.

The vampire's eyes narrow at the movement. "Interesting," it says. And then it lunges. There's no warning, no tick, no nothing and if Derek were anything but an Alpha he'd have fallen. As it is he barely ducks in time, catching the vampire around the middle and lunging down and away from where Stiles yelps behind him.

"Stiles, run-" He yells just as the vampire tips under him, flipping their momentum and crashing them both into the fence. Derek has just enough time to realise he's in a lot of trouble before the vampire lunges, fast - _too fast_ - at his throat and there's no way-

The vampire recoils like it's been punched, mouth open grotesquely wide and hissing as it glares in shock at the curve of Derek's neck. Derek doesn't hesitate, claws crunching through the wood of the fence behind him and wrenching free a jagged slat. The swing as he brings it down to the vampire's chest is blocked, but only _just_.

"Who's put their teeth in you then, pup?" The vampire says and Derek wants to recoil from it's breath because Jesus, it's like concentrated _death_. Then suddenly there's a snap, jolt and a sickening squelch and the fact Derek knows exactly what it sounds like when a sharp implement is pushed through flesh is probably not a good thing.

"That'd be me," Stiles says and Derek looks up and over the vampires shoulder to where Stiles is braced against what looks like the end of a- is that a freaking _broom handle_?

Stiles grimaces and twists and the vampire jolts again, eyes wide and mouth agape before Derek's suddenly falling forward, the grip on the vampire failing because it's - it's -

"Holy shit, did you _see that_?!" Stiles yells. Derek blinks, sniffs and promptly regrets it as he has a coughing fit over inhaling - oh god, _really?_

"Joss Whedon totally knows about vampires, dude!" Stiles crows, flailing his makeshift stake down at the pile of what used to be snarling vampire at their feet. "Oh my god, this is _awesome_! It literally looked exactly like the show!"

Derek snatches the broom out of Stiles' hand before he can stab himself with it. "I told you to run," he growls.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "You're _welcome_," he says, and makes stupid grabby hands at the handle. "And gimme that back, I wanna hang it on my wall or something."

Derek contemplates throwing it over the fence before a small voice in the back of his head tells him that Stiles having access to sharp bits of wood for the foreseeable future will probably be a good thing. The look on Stiles' face when he hands it back is like a six year old being given a puppy for Christmas. "I'm gonna name it Mr Pointy," he says reverently and Derek can't help his snort.

"Hey don't judge," Stiles says, waving the stick close enough to Derek's nose that he reaches out and grabs it, raising one eyebrow. Stiles ignores it. "In case you didn't notice, I jut saved your ass. _Twice_."

Derek grunts, toeing at the ash pile. Because - yes - okay, it is sorta awesome. "How d'you figure 'twice'?" He says.

Stiles' answer is a grin and a nod down to Derek's neck and - _oh_ -

Derek only just stops himself from reaching up to cover the scar. "That's a big old private property sticker according to vamps," Stiles says gleefully. "It may as well say 'trespassers will be shot'."

Derek feels heat rising on his neck and growls as he turns to lead the way out of the alley. "I'm not your property," he says, ignoring the low swoop in his gut as he says it.

Stiles laughs the most distracting laugh yet. "Yeah right, Sourwolf, your ass is _mine_."


	4. Dear Succubus, Screw You

_**AN:** Please note the change of rating people. Adult material ahoy._

* * *

Stiles scowls, chewing on the straw of the mocktail in front of him. It's some disgustingly sweet, fizzy number that is apparently warranted because it needs to look like he's drinking. Stiles really, really wishes he was drinking. What the hell is the use of having a fake-ID (thankyouverymuch Danny) if he can't use it?

"Stop scowling," Lydia's voice hisses in his ear, tinny and small through the Bluetooth earpiece. "You need to look approachable."

"I'm approachable," Stiles mutters. "I'm _adorable_."

Lydia snorts and Stiles has to remind himself that he's had a crush on her since grade school and doesn't hate her guts right now. Even if he does a little. "And stop mangling your damn straw," she says. "Your lips are your best asset, _suck it_."

Stiles goes one better and almost chokes on the thing.

"Oh my god, _Lydia_," Scott says and it doesn't matter that they're on the phone, Stiles can perfectly picture the look of scandalised horror on his best friend's face.

"What? It's true," Lydia says and if this were two years ago Stiles may have been doing the hula. Now though...

"She is right," Boyd - _fucking Boyd_ - pipes up and Stiles lasts just long enough to hear Erica start laughing before he jolts to his feet.

"I'm going to the mens," he hisses and before any of them can protest, hits the call hold on his iPhone.

Being a human member of a werewolf pack has it's perks. Stiles is positive it does. Right now though, he's having a lot of trouble coming up with even one.

He bashes through the back door towards the toilets with probably a little more force than is _strictly_ necessary but _screw it_, the bar he's in is seedy enough no one's going to notice the extra dint in the wall.

Just like no one'll notice the one _he_ makes when he's thrown up against it. Stiles is about to scream bloody murder before the leather and the stubble register.

"Oh my _god_, Derek-"

"You hung up," Derek growls, and he's so close Stiles can actually _feel_ it.

"I'm going to _pee_," Stiles says. "I know we're a tight-knit pack and all that but I'd like to keep some things a mystery."

Derek's nostrils actually flare in his anger and Stiles rolls his eyes. "C'mon dude, game plan - this thing isn't going to show if it sees you being all growly and up in my business."

Derek's eyebrows twitch. "I don't like this plan," he says as he - okay, that is the opposite of moving away.

"So you've said," Stiles says, trying to fuse to the wall because Derek hasn't been this far up in his grill in a long time and it's - well, it's less familiar and more disconcerting as freaking hell.

Derek tips his head to the side, nose scrunching. "Why do you smell like alcohol?"

Stiles blinks. "What? I-_woah okay-_"

"You weren't supposed to be _actually_ drinking," Derek growls from like - yeah, that's _against_ his neck. Stiles's skin is getting the full surround-sound here and it's really, really not okay that it seems to be passing the signal onto his pants because _jesus_ this is _Derek_.

"I wasn't," Stiles says and it comes out way too much like a squeak for his dignity not to do a face-palm. "Derek-"

"I can _smell_ it on you, Stiles," Derek says, taking another big ol' whiff, stubble scraping across Stiles' throat and Stiles slams his hand hard back against the wall.

"If you don't back off, that's not all you're going to smell," Stiles says, voice weak and fucking _mortified_ because Jesus, when the freaking Christ on a stick had _this_ become a thing? But... okay, Stiles can admit that Derek's - well, hot doesn't really cover it but - but _no_, okay? Just no. This is Derek. And sure, the last couple of years have seen him become less of a lesson in douche-hattery and the way he's pulled the pack together after everything is almost awe-inspiring and..._oh fuck_.

Stiles totally has a thing for Derek. Derek who's currently pressing into his neck, all hot breath and low humming and from here Stiles can see perfectly where the scar he left almost two years ago...isn't.

Stiles blinks. No scar. He blinks again, thinking wildly that he has the wrong shoulder but no - no he knows the look of that freaking thing almost better than the inside of his own eyelids - it's become something of a _theme_ - and if it's not there- Oh fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

Derek - oh god _not Derek_ - licks a hot stripe up the side of Stiles' neck and when Stiles shudders it's not with anything even close to pleasure.

Because the baddie of the week they're hunting? A freaking _succubus_, and Stiles has seen _pictures_ of what those things look like when they're not shifted into their prey's ideal...oh fuck Stiles' life - their prey's _ideal partner_.

Stiles takes a split second to throw that particular revelation onto the back burner of things-not-fair-at-the-fuck-all before he braces and throws his knee up.

The succubus makes a choked yelping sound and if Stiles hadn't already been sure of what it is, that would have cinched it. It probably speaks a lot about his life that he knows exactly what sort of sound Derek makes when he's in pain.

The creature spits at him, eyes flashing violet. "You little-"

Stiles doesn't hesitate, just brings the can of pepper spray up and aims. The succubus grins and it's too wide and full of too many teeth for Derek's face. "You think that'll stop me?"

Stiles swallows hard. "Nope," he says. "But it'll slow you down."

Then he sprays half the can in the thing's face. The succubus goes from grinning to howling in a very satisfying split second and seriously, if Stiles gets out of this alive he's going to kiss Deaton full on the freaking mouth. The succubus flails, features rippling and Stiles doesn't stick around to watch it recover, instead bolting for the back door which leads to the back alley and blessed, _blessed_ backup.

To his credit, he makes it about half way there before a grip catches him around the ankle and he falls with a yell, knee cracking painfully against the floor boards. He flips, kicking the claw off him but doesn't make it back to his feet before the succubus is on him, breath hot and rancid and oh _ew_ the pictures had been _way_ too kind-

"You're going to regret that," the thing hisses and Stiles has just enough time to brace, hand fumbling for his pocket before there's claws shredding his jacket like tissue paper and slicing into his shoulder.

He cries out just as he hits what he hopes is the freaking hold button on his phone and suddenly there are voices, loud and urgent in his ear and Stiles can't even begin to focus because-

"Derek!"

Later he's going to kick himself that he hasn't noticed Derek's been his go-to in tight spots for a while now.

The claws dig in and twist and Stiles can't help the broken yell that breaks out of him when he's slammed back into the floor. It almost drowns out the sound of the roar echoing painfully loud through the wireless bud in his ear.

Stiles grins a grin that's probably more grimace. "You are so screwed," he says.

The succubus leans over him, eyes burning. "He's too far away to save you," it says.

"Yeah, but I'm not," a voice says. The succubus jerks up, eyes wide and Stiles mentally slaps a bullseye on it's chest a second before the arrow hits. Stiles has never been so proud of Allison's aim in his _life_. He's never calling her Katniss again - she's totally been upgraded to Hawkeye, fuck gender norms.

The succubus makes a choked, wheeze of a sound and falls, thankfully enough to the side that Stiles can scramble out from under it with minimal effort. He's made it to the wall, knee throbbing and hand bloody where he presses it to his shoulder before his vision is suddenly full of worried werewolf.

"Stiles!" Scott says urgently, eyes still gleaming yellow and Stiles thinks it just may be his new favourite colour. Fuck purple.

"I'm okay," Stiles says, grabbing for - oh, okay, yes - that's Derek's arm that's attached to Derek's hand that's pulling him up and-

The sudden flare of pain from his shoulder is basically the greatest thing in the history of ever, even if it does make him stumble a bit, gripping Derek's jacket for balance because at least he has an excuse not to look up. Because looking at Derek after what's just happened is the absolute lowest thing on his to-do list. In fact, Stiles thinks he'll be just fine to never look Derek in the eye ever again.

"You hung up," Derek growls and Stiles can't help the automatic wrench out of his grip, falling with his back to the wall and wide eyes locking with...red. Red eyes. Okay. He can do this. Stiles swallows the sudden spike of panic and winces.

"Can we just...wait 'til Deaton's patched me up before you yell at me please?" He asks and he's pretty damn proud of how his voice doesn't waver, particularly since Derek's already pinning him with the intense eyebrows.

Derek pauses a little too long for comfort before he nods and Boyd and Isaac move past him to grab the succubus' body. It's a small miracle no one's heard the commotion already, the last thing any of them need is to leave a dead supernatural calling-card.

Stiles swallows hard when he looks at the thing, remembering hot breath and - oh god - _tongue_, before he lets Scott help him out to the jeep, scrubbing at his neck as he goes.

* * *

Deaton takes one look at him, sighs and heads straight for the draw with all the sharpest freaking needles, screw Stiles' life.

"How'd it go?" He asks as Stiles shrugs out of his jacket, wincing all the way until Scott finally has to step in and help him remove the final cuff.

"The succubus is dead," Derek says. "Stiles is an idiot."

"Hey, we had a deal," Stiles protests, groaning when Isaac appears with a familiar pair of fabric scissors. "Really dude? This is my _Iron Man_ shirt."

Isaac, bless his cotton soul, at least gives him a consoling look. As he should, Stiles has seen his comic book collection. "It's already totalled," he says sympathetically and Stiles really can't argue - the sleeve of it is a tattered mess where the claws went in and the rest of it looks like a crime scene. Stiles knows better than to hope that all of the blood is his. Which, _ew_.

"On second thought, please get this off me like, yesterday," he says and then jumps when he hears the unmistakable sound of rending material because Isaac's still at the door and- yep, okay, those are Derek's freaking _claws_ making short work of Stiles' shirt. "Oh my god, warn a guy?" He protests and absolutely doesn't startle when Derek's claws graze the back of his neck as they cut through his collar.

"You smell like death," Derek says, like that's an excuse for tearing a guy's shirt off him which- oh wow, so not following _that_ train of thought.

Seriously, screw succubuses and their stupid ability to worm their way into the subconscious. Because this? This Stiles could have lived with happily buried for the rest of _eternity_.

The final tattered remains of his shirt are removed with a gentle efficiency that Stiles can't help but pay way too much attention to. Then, thank god, Deaton steps up in front of him with all the antiseptic, needles and other medical paraphernalia that're going to make Stiles' next couple of hours a living hell. As distractions go, Stiles can't really ask for better.

Deaton looks him in the eye. "This is going to hurt more than normal - I have to cleanse the wounds to make sure none of the venom was transferred," he says and Stiles groans - anti-venom wound washing is always the _worst_. "Ready?"

"If I say no, would you not do it?" Stiles says and like every time Stiles tries to joke in a situation like this, Deaton just fixes him with his don't-be-an-idiot look. Stiles rolls his eyes. "Have at it House."

The first swipe of the anti-venom feels like Deaton's struck a match across the wound and Stiles bites down hard on a pained shout. Then Scott's hand is there, gripping his good shoulder and yaaaay, werewolf morphine for the win...

Things get fuzzy after that. Stiles thinks he falls back to lean against a wall of heat behind him, the prick and drag of Deaton stitching his shoulder up a muffled throb against the cotton wool world werewolf pain-suckage always puts him into. For the longest time it's just that - shuttered pain and wounded noises that sound too far away to be real. The hand on his shoulder goes away to he replaced a second later by another, and then another until Stiles blinks down into darkness.

When he comes to, he's got a face full of leather and the rumbling of an engine all around him. He blinks slowly, eyes focusing on the street lights streaking by the window. The movement makes him slightly dizzy.

"How're you feeling?" Derek asks and Stiles doesn't know why he didn't recognise the sound of the Camaro's engine sooner.

Stiles groans and sits up, the leather jacket that's been pillowing his head against the window crumpling into his lap. He blinks stupidly down at it for a second. "Did I pass out?" He asks because, wow _embarassing_. Stiles has had to be stitched up more times than he can count and he's never gone under like that.

"Deaton said there was something extra in the anti-venom," Derek says and the explanation soothes Stiles' ego a little.

Stiles grunts and attempts a tentative stretch. His shoulder feels tight, tender and still slightly numb but hey, the life he leads, still _having_ a shoulder is good enough for him. "The others?"

"Isaac drove Scott home a couple of hours ago - you know how he gets after healing," Derek says, turning through a green light and Stiles realises then that they're heading for his place - something he probably should have been more pro-active about asking about except... Except he's with Derek.

Stiles swallows. Hard. Because apparently sometime over the past two years he's started feeling safe enough around Derek that he trusts him to get him where he needs to be without asking and _fuuuuuuck_, this is bad...

The leather jacket in his lap suddenly feels about ten times heavier than it actually is which is nothing to the weight of his own shoulders when he realises that - yep - he's wearing one of Derek's shirts, likely from the stash he keeps in his car for wolfy emergencies. _God_.

"You heard from the others?" He says, because he has to talk or there's gunna be like, hysterical laughter or something, he just knows it.

Derek grunts, turning into Stiles' street. "They've taken care of the body," he says, which means Beacon Hills reserve just gained one more anonymous gravesite. "Everyone's home safe."

"And roll credits," stiles says, because he's never going to stop thinking of his life as a Joss Whedon paranormal drama.

Derek pulls into Stiles' driveway and Stiles has just enough time to register his dad's land rover isn't present, before Derek's killing the engine and _god_, of all the nights. "Okay, so dad's not home, that doesn't mean-"

But Derek's already out of the car and circling around to the passenger side, face set and Stiles thumps his head back against the headrest.

"I'm _fine_," he protests when his door is pulled open.

"You passed out," Derek says in his don't-fuck-with-the-alpha voice, a tone that's highly at odds with the care he's taking while helping Stiles out of the car. "I'm not leaving you to brain yourself walking up the stairs."

Stiles snorts as he gingerly unfolds himself from the car. His right knee is throbbing which makes putting weight on it a lesson in not-fun but he manages to stand without too much difficulty. "That was one time," he says.

"Your father threatened to put wolfsbane in my coffee if it happened again," Derek says, swinging the car door closed before shadowing Stiles up to the porch like the creeper he is.

"He was totally bluffing," Stiles says, climbing the stairs only slightly faster than a little old lady. "Against all laws of man and nature, he actually likes you."

"In my _coffee_, Stiles," Derek says, like Stiles' dad had threatened to desecrate a holy temple, which, with the way Derek treats every caffeine fix like a religious experience, is probably pretty appropriate.

It takes a bit of shuffling and absolutely no leaning on Derek at all, thanks, for Stiles to get his keys out and the front door unlocked. When they reach the stairs, Derek doesn't even try for subtlety - simply hooks Stiles' arm around his shoulders, anchors his own around Stiles' waist and all but carries him bodily up the freaking things. "You really know how to make a dude feel emasculated, y'know that?" Stiles says as he's deposited at the top of the landing.

"Excuse me for not wanting to spend my night watching you hobble up one flight of stairs," Derek says.

"Hey now, this-" Stiles flings his arm down at himself as he _does not hobble_ into his room to collapse onto the edge of his bed. "-this is a _warriors_ limp. One gained while heroically fighting off an evil sex demon, I might add." Stiles lets himself fall backward onto the mattress, legs dangling over the edge of it as he fist-pumps the air with his good arm. "ALL the manly points for me!"

"Yes," Derek says and Stiles freezes solid because Derek's- "All the manly points to you for heroically nearly getting yourself killed," Derek says as he tugs the laces of Stiles' cons open. It's not the first time Derek's taken off Stiles' shoes, mainly because it's not the first time Stiles has been injured enough to warrant it but - well - after the events of the evening it's suddenly a whole new class of disconcerting.

Stiles realises very suddenly that if he were to look down he'd be treated to the view of Derek Hale kneeling between his legs. Stiles doesn't think he's ever flushed so hot so fast.

Derek yanks his shoes off with all the sex appeal of stripping a bed but it doesn't seem to matter to Stiles' dick at all because the fucking thing _twitches_. Stiles practically jackknifes into a seating position so that the curl of his body maybe - _please god_ - obscures it a bit and the move earns him a raised eyebrow from Derek who - because this is Stiles' life - is still crouched between his knees.

Stiles tries for nonchalant, reaching up to rub at his neck only to regret it a moment later when Derek's eyes narrow at the hand like it's personally offended him. Before Stiles can blink, Derek has a hold of his wrist.

"Woah, hey-"

"You keep doing that," Derek says, holding Stiles' hand away from his neck and the way he's crouched now, all up in Stiles' space, Stiles could really, really easily just lean in and- _nope, nope_.

Stiles pulls his hand out of Derek's grip and leans back, heart tapping double-time. "Do what?"

Derek's answer is to lean _closer_ because of course it is, grabbing Stiles' chin to tilt his head to the right and _oh_-

"You keep rubbing your neck," Derek says. "You've made a mark."

Stiles bats Derek's hands away; can feel his ears turning red as he huffs. "Yeah, well - I might go at it with a cheese grater later," he says. "Mr Sex McGrossgross got a little tongue action in. It was suitably scarring."

Derek's eyebrows do their angry huddle. "It _licked_ you?"

"Don't worry, there's no adverse effects beyond severe mental anguish," Stiles says. "I checked. Twice." Benefits to getting Danny to host the bestiary online - Stiles can get at it from anywhere with phone reception.

Derek scowls at him, reaching up again to tilt his head to the side and Stiles lets him, because he's seen Derek in this mood before and knows from experience it's best to just let him go. "You should have had Deaton look at it," Derek says, and then, because he's a creepy-ass werewolf he leans in slightly and sniffs. Stiles doesn't know if he's trying to scent if anything's up with the mark or what and really - tragically - it doesn't matter, because despite Derek keeping a discrete - well, as discrete as werewolves can be anyway - distance from Stiles' neck, the move is still similar enough to what the Succubus had done that Stiles flinches, _hard_.

Derek sits back sharply like he's been slapped and Stiles groans, squeezing his eyes closed. "There's like, zero chance of us pretending that didn't just happen isn't there?"

An ice cap melts in the ensuing silence which in itself is proof enough that Derek's putting the pieces together. Stiles isn't dumb, Derek will never admit it of course but he _does_ know it. They both know the Succubus would never have gotten within licking distance if it'd been wearing a stranger. And now... Well, if Derek can't follow this to its logical conclusion then he's not nearly smart enough to be Stiles' type _at_ all.

Which is why, when Stiles gives up and cracks one eye open a moment later, he knows he's entirely and utterly screwed.

Under absolutely any other circumstances, Stiles would find the look on Derek's face hilarious. The dude looks trapped, frown practically etched in as his eyes dart anywhere, _anywhere_ but Stiles' face.

He tries twice to say something before any sound comes out and with each false start Stiles feels something spike hotter and hotter between his shoulder blades. "Stiles, I-"

He doesn't make it beyond that, because Stiles- Well Stiles has apparently turned into a freaking crazy person, because before he can really think about it he's half leaning, half falling forward, slotting his mouth over Derek's in a move that really wouldn't go amiss appearing next to the word 'uncoordinated' in the dictionary. Along with a picture of Stiles' _face_.

Derek makes a noise that's half yelp, half surprised grunt before Stiles is suddenly being pushed away and holy shit, he's going to die. He's actually going to die. Derek's going to rip his throat out, with his _teeth_.

"Oh my god, please just make it a quick death," Stiles says as he opens his eyes and Derek looks- Derek looks-

Derek looks fucking _wrecked_.

Stiles licks his lips, imagines he can taste Derek there - as stupid as that notion is - and Derek just stops. Freezes entirely solid for a split second as his eyes dip to Stiles' mouth and _oh holy shit_...

Derek swallows, and it's a victory Stiles feels down to his bones. "I'm not-" Derek starts but Stiles doesn't let him finish. His aim is better this time, probably because he manages to get his good hand around Derek's neck to angle him and it only takes a slight tug and a quick swipe of tongue across Derek's lower lip before he's - _holy god_ - making the best noise in the history of ever and opening up and _jesus christ_ Stiles is gonna _die_ but what a way to go.

Derek's mouth is hot and wet and distracting as _hell_ which is about the only excuse Stiles has for losing his balance and slipping off the edge of the bed but Derek - perfect, coordinated, fucking _sucking-on-his-tongue_ Derek - just catches him under the thighs and hoists him up and onto his back and not even the flare of pain from his shoulder is enough to distract him from this because _fuck yes_.

Stiles moans and he can't even be embarrassed that it sounds like something off a porn soundtrack, not when it earns him Derek's breath hitching on a growl and Derek's hips pressing down and that's a dick - holy shit, he can feel Derek's _dick_.

"Oh my god," Stiles gasps, breaking the kiss and then - because he really does know Derek far too well - he digs a claw grip into Derek's hair to yank him back into the whole ten inches of space he's managed to put between them. "If you try to run right now I swear to god I'll kick your ass."

Derek looks down at him, pupils blown, hair a mess and Stiles doesn't think he's ever seen Derek look so terrified. "I- " he stops, blinks down at Stiles' mouth like it's a compulsion or something, which _awesome_, before he's shaking his head with a growl. "We can't."

"Oh yes we so can," Stiles says, hooking his good leg up and over Derek's hip. It's enough to make Derek's knee slide a bit on the comforter which breaches another three inches. Progress, by Stilinski. "I'm legal as of three months ago, your boner for me was just jabbing me _in the hip_ and in case you had trouble working it out, my jonze for you is so vast a fucking _succubus_ tried to kill me while wearing your face tonight." At the reminder, Derek's eyes flick down to Stiles' neck and Stiles isn't even going to try and deny his dicks interest when they flash red. He licks his lips and tries not to squirm. "So- so right now, we're going to rub up against eachother until both of us come, you're not going to judge when I do so really fucking fast and then we're going to have a shower together and I'm going to blow you."

Derek chokes on air at that and Stiles uses the moment to brace himself and _pull_. For a full second Stiles finds himself just sorta _hanging_ off Derek, like a giant uncoordinated sloth, because fuckyouverymuch werewolf strength. Then - thank god - Derek huffs, lowering them both down until he's pressed the length of Stiles again and Stiles would do a fist pump only his good hand is busy sense-memory-ing the _fuck_ out of Derek's stupid-soft hair.

"You're a fucking _nightmare_," Derek says.

Stiles uses his new leverage to roll his hips up which earns him a flash of alpha red before Derek closes his eyes and groans like Stiles is _killing him_. Stiles grins so hard his face hurts. "You like me anyway," he says and then nearly dies when Derek hooks one hand around his good knee, lifts and meets his next roll with one of his own. "Oh _fuck_, Derek..."

Derek's answer is to duck his head, nosing Stiles' jaw to the side like some kind of giant stubbly cat before-

Stiles freezes, he can't help it because there's tongue and suddenly he's back in the dingy hallway and- Derek grabs his hand from where he's probably leaving claw marks in his neck and presses it between them to - _oh_...

Stiles doesn't know when Derek started growling, but it's there, practically subsonic but Stiles can feel it vibrating through his hand. It's enough to ground him, enough to remind him of where he is and who's sucking hot - _oh god_ - hot open-mouth kisses to his throat, scraping teeth against the tendon and leaving him shaking and seriously, having a predator pressing teeth to your neck should not be a fucking turn on. Werewolves are the _worst_.

"You can-" Stiles chokes at another of Derek's mind-melting hip roll combos, fisting his hand in Derek's shirt which is _ridiculous_ because of all the times for Derek to _not_ lose his shirt. "B-bite," Stiles gasps, and then, because _werewolves_. "I mean don't _bite_ bite, but-" Stiles cuts off on a strangled yell, because Derek's taken his permission and fucking _run_ with it, wasting no time in sinking - thankfully human - teeth in and _hello kink Stiles never knew he had_.

Stiles arches up and comes, hard and _debilitating_. He has just enough time to remember how to breathe before his world is shattering again as Derek goes rigid above him, a wounded noise punching out of him as- holy fuck, Stiles has made Derek Hale come in his jeans. This is officially the greatest day in the history of fucking _ever_.

To Derek's credit, he does try to collapse beside Stiles, probably trying to save jostling Stiles' injuries more than they already have been. Not that Stiles is having any of it because - well, maybe it's a post orgasming with another person thing or maybe just a Derek thing but touching is _awesome_.

Derek grunts a little in surprise as he's stopped mid-roll before sighing like his life is _so hard_ and pressing back. Stiles grins and licks a stripe across the seam of his lips because he'll dare anyone not to take _that_ opportunity if it's right there in front of them. "We should do this with less clothes next time," he says, pressing a kiss to the corner of Derek's mouth which earns him an eye roll but also makes Derek's hand clench a little over his hip so Stiles saves the knowledge away. "Or - y'know - with no clothes," Stiles continues. "No clothes would be better."

"You seriously never shut up do you?" Derek says but jokes on him because Stiles is a _master_ of the tone of fond exasperation and that there? Totally a prime example.

Stiles grins and presses his face into Derek's neck. "Nope," he says happily before licking stripe over the scar there. Derek _shudders_ like he's coming apart, fingers digging sharp into Stiles' hip and oh _hell yes_. "We should do that shower thing," Stiles says against Derek's jaw.

"No," Derek says and it's abrupt enough that Stiles jerks back.

"No?"

Derek sits up and Stiles' stomach goes cold for a second before he registers Derek is...is yanking his shirt over his head...

"Your knee is busted," Derek says. "There's no way you're kneeling anywhere tonight."

And then he's standing up and heading for the hall - the hall that leads to the bathroom and Stiles will follow him just as soon as he stops gaping.

Because _tonight_.

Stiles does a spastic flail of success which he immediately regrets because _stitches_.

Still. Worth it.


End file.
